Leaving It Open
by The Lunar Witch
Summary: What happens when I writer can't do what he loves to do most? Writing is Darien's life, but can he do it anymore? Can he stand living in a world where the well of his inspiration has been dried up? This is a one shot short story.


Title: Leaving it Open  
Author: The Lunar Witch

Rating: PG-13  
Genre: Angst

            "So…" There was a pause on the other line. "Anything yet?"

Why couldn't anyone just leave me the hell alone? Everyone had to call me. See if I was all right. It's not like anyone had died. I just wanted to be left alone, but no one got it.     "No… Nothing…"

            "That sucks." I could tell he was clearly disappointed. The guy on the phone was a good friend of mine. Andrew. He was a big director or something. Mingled with 'the people.' Thought I was anti-social. He tried to get me out and sometimes he would succeed, but I never really had a good time. He said I should flirt more. Get myself a girl, but I was never good at that sort of thing. Women… They were too much to handle. I wasn't necessarily happy here, at home, by myself, but it worked. "Hey, Dar…? You ok?"

            "Yeah… I'm fine."

            "You sure?"

            "Yeah." I rubbed my eyes in an exhausted sort of way. I was tired. Really tired. I'm not quite sure why I was tired, cause I'd slept for like 15 hours.

            "Look… Darien… You need anything… you know who to call. I got to go though. See ya." And then there was a dial tone. He just hung up, but I didn't really care. It's not like I wasn't going to just hang up on him or anything. He might have just wanted to do it to me before I did it to him. That was just like Andrew. He had to be the first to do everything even if it was hanging up on someone. That was just the way he was. It used to piss me off, but now it doesn't.

            I got up from the black leather couch that sat in the middle of my flat. I'd lived in the place for about three years. Needless to say it didn't have much character. The walls were white and furniture was sparse. I don't really need color. It seems sort of pointless to me. All that frill and garbage. It's just useless energy. Some places give me headaches when I walk into them because of all the color. That's why I don't go anywhere.

            I walked into the kitchen and poured myself some coffee from the pot that sat on the counter. It was cold. I think I made it like two days ago. Oh, well. I took another sip and thought for a moment, but nothing came to me. I was getting frustrated with myself. Not one damn idea in about six months. Not one damn idea. It was started to really piss me off. Like I'd run dry or something. I needed a cigarette. I needed to calm my nerves, but I found within the first few minutes of throwing old newspapers and wads of ruined paper that not one existed in the apartment. Not one damn cigarette.

            I would have to go out to get a pack. So I just picked up my leather coat and walked out of the place. I don't think I closed the door behind me. I didn't really pay attention to it, but even if I didn't close the door it would be fine. There wasn't anything of value in the flat. Just some Oscar that I kept under the bathroom sink.

            Yeah... I know what you're thinking. You won an Oscar? Sure... whatever. The truth is. I did. About three years ago I wrote a script that was bought by Warner Brothers. Paid me hell of a lot for it too. About two hundred grand and after that my career skyrocketed. Andrew directed it and he pulled some major strings to get some damn good actors. Mina Carleson... Gregory Bindler... you know... the kind of actors and actresses that were sure to sell at the box office.

            Sure enough the movie was a hit. Everyone in their right mind was going to the theaters to see that flick. Don't really know why. I didn't think it was that good. In fact I'd written much better things than that piece of garbage, but it didn't really matter what I thought. As long as everyone was making money. Can't say I can complain much.

So then there was Oscar night. Yeah... I had to wear that damn tuxedo like I was some hotshot along with all the other hotshots in the place. And those women... with their bright colored frilly dresses. 

            So the show started and everyone that had something to do with the movie sat in the same row. Some guy was the host that year. Thought he was all funny and stuff. I don't remember laughing all that much, but everyone around me did. He cracked some jokes at Andrew. Why not? Everyone knew Andrew. Then at some other well known actor. Not sure who. People sang. It was loud. Then there was this big tribute to this old guy that I didn't know. They handed him this award statue and thanked him for his tribute through the years. Saying how much they loved him and what an impact he had on the film business. Sure.

            I guess the highlight of that show is the awards people receive. Mina won Best Actress. She cried and thanked everyone. I think she even thanked me. She said something about if I hadn't written that script that she would not be the woman she was standing up on that stage. Yeah... Whatever... Andrew won Best Director. He thanked everyone you could possibly think of. I think he would have kept going if the show hadn't started that annoying music before commercial breaks.

            Best Original Screen Play was next. The truth is I never thought I would win. Didn't really want to. There were three other writers crossing their damn fingers and I didn't even want to win. Those overly happy words... the ones that sound like the presenters are 'oh so excited' to reveal this great secret, sounded over the crowd, and the people around me held their breath. I swear I was the only one breathing. "And the winner is... Darien M. Sheilds, yada yada yada..." Mina cried again as Andrew pushed me up out of my seat and towards the stage. So I went. I got a handshake from the guy up there and than a kiss from the girl who had read from her little envelope. Why do they even do that... for god's sake I didn't even know these people.

            In situations like that I guess I'm supposed to make this fantastically inspiring speech and thank everyone, but like hell. I'm pretty sure the only words that came out of my mouth were, "Uh... Thanks" And then I left. Actually I'm positive that's what I said. If you want proof I have it on tape. It's not like I recorded it or anything. Why the hell would I want to tape that crappy show? No, Mina taped it. Then she made all these copies and forced everyone to take one. I tried to throw it away, but every week a new tape would appear at my doorstep. It's like she knew I was going to throw it away. I finally just gave up. Too much effort.

            And that's how I got my Oscar and since then I haven't been able to write one good script. It was really starting to piss me off and that's why I needed a cigarette right now. I walked around the corner and into the mart that was embedded in a little strip mall. It smelled pretty bad, but I didn't care. Anything for a smoke.

            The guy over the counter handed me a pack and I gave him some money. Six bucks for a pack of damn cigarettes. What's this world coming to?

            I walked out of the little store and took a breath of the horrible L.A. air and a moment later I tore into the cigarettes and pulled one out. I lit it with my cheap ass lighter and took a nice long inhale. The warm feeling within my throat and lungs made me a bit less tense. My body relaxed, but I was still pissed.

            When I finally made it back to my apartment building I had finished my first cigarette. Before I entered the little lobby area I made sure to drop the cigarette on cement floor and step on it. I always stepped on my cigarettes when I was finished with them. I don't really know why. All I know is that it sort of made me angry when others didn't. Like they were too damn good to put out their own damn cigarette. 

            Like the woman that stepped into elevator with me on my way back up to my place. She had this fur lined suede coat on and this large bag at her side. I'd seen her in the elevator before with that same bag. I think she was a wife of some TV producer. She had that look about her. Don't ask me what that look is, but trust me she had it. She was one of those people that didn't step their cigarettes out when they were finished with them. 

            I lit another smoke and took another drag while I leaned against the elevator wall and waited for the doors to close. I wasn't asking for anyone to talk to me. I was just standing there like any normal person until she turned to me and gave me this painted smile. 

            "You're that writer, right?" She looked snippy. Like she had been living too many years with her rich husband that was probably cheating on her. 

            I didn't say anything, just gave her a look that I thought would end the conversation, but it didn't. She went on about how much she liked my damn movie and how it had truly been a piece of art. She kept going, which sort of confused me, cause I wasn't even looking at her. I was looking at the grey carpet in the elevator and how clean it was. The maintenance people probably cleaned it every night so the Hollywood big shots wouldn't be offended by the dirt. I wouldn't have cared about the dirt, but I think Andrew might have. I know this lady would have.

            "Young man? Did you hear me? I said that your—" Apparently she had been talking this entire time. 

            "No. I didn't." 

            She gave me this horrid look, because I'm pretty sure my voice sounded like I didn't care about a damn thing she had said to me. Which I didn't. 

            I was pretty grateful that silence had fallen over the lift. She didn't say anything for a few minutes, just snuffed up her nose and gave me stupid looks, like I had done something oh so horrible. 

            "Would you put that cigarette out? It's disgusting." 

            This was the first time I had actually looked at her, giving her a real straight on glare. I took one more drag on the cigarette and blew the grey haze of smoke right into her face. She looked like I was some kind of infidel, like I had committed a crime against her, which I probably had. Hollywood people had laws for everything. If you stepped on their brand new Gucci shoes I wouldn't doubt it if you got life. I dropped the cigarette on the clean grey elevator carpet as the doors opened to my floor. I didn't step it out like I usually did. What did I care if the whole damn building burned to the ground? 

            When I had made it to my door I found that I hadn't closed it, but like I said there wasn't anything of any real value so nothing was missing. Never could tell with all of the Hollywood crooks round here, though. They could want the couch or something. Ah, take it. 

            I didn't bother to close the door when I entered either. Instead I just headed straight for my laptop that was in an office that I hardly ever used. Andrew said I needed an apartment with an office now that I was making money. Really, I don't care where I write as long as I do. 

            So I sat there and turned it on. Looked at the electronic blue screen and tried to think of something. Anything. I needed to write. Needed to. The frustration was getting to me like you wouldn't believe. 

            I think I sat there for about two hours before I grabbed the damn thing and threw it against my wall. It shattered in several pieces. More pieces than I thought it would. The screen went blank and cracked in several areas, while the plastic covering broke into three or four different bits. Some of the keys were scattered across the floor. 

            I'm not really sure why I did it. I had just thrown away a good piece of useful equipment that would probably cost me another $2000 to replace, but it had felt good. It felt good when I tugged on the cord that attached it to the electrical socket and ripped it out. Like I had accomplished something. 

            I stood and looked at it for a few minutes and as the time passed what I had done no longer felt good. In fact, it started to make me angry. What I had done had not done anything to relieve me of... anything. I was still in the same office, in the same apartment, in the same body, in the same life. I was still here. So what had destroying the damn thing done to help? Absolutely nothing. That thought pissed me off even more.

            I guess the next thing I did was take a shower. I turned on the water and watched it flow down the drain for a little while before actually undressing and getting in. The hot water stung my shoulders since the water pressure was pretty good in this building. I probably had the heat a little too high cause my entire body was red when I stepped out. I must have stood in that bathroom for some time before I actually got dressed and walked over to the sink where a medicine cabinet hung. 

            The mirror reflected back everything about my life that disgusted me.  Andrew said I was a rather handsome guy. That if I actually went out I would have a following of beautiful women. Mina said I have this dark mysterious aura encircling me. Ha. Dark and mysterious, my ass. I think they would have been a little more interested in my bank account than my actual looks. Who knows, maybe I could have made a lucky girl the next big movie star. 

            I hadn't cut my black hair in about a year. It was hanging over eyes and would often get in my way when I was trying to type or watch TV or anything that required me looking at it. It doesn't bother me so much, though. It's grown long enough. My eyes looked so depressing in that misty mirror. Everything about the look I had on made me remember the writer's block that I can't seem to release myself from. And when I think about not being able to write it… well it angers me. Haven't you noticed? If you haven't you're a complete moron. 

            Oh, I was pissed. I was so pissed I even glared at my own reflection. I wanted out. I wanted to get away from all of this… this ridicules tripe. These friends… these coworkers… this apartment… this business… the city… it was all so… so… infuriating and that's when I remember smashing my hand into the mirror. There was no pain. I couldn't feel the slivers of glass slice into my hand. I new they had though. Just by seeing the red sticky substance run down my arm, I knew that I had cut myself. 

            I must have been in some weird trance of something, because I didn't even think about it when I bent down to get the first aid kit under the sink. I opened the door I found very little in there. It must have been quite some time since I had gone through the things there cause there was quite a bit of dust, but nothing had been moved from where I remember it. On one side was a first aid kit, the object I think I had actually gone in there for right next to it was a hand gun. 

            I can't remember where I got the hand gun… some pawn shop or something, but I can remember why I got it. When I moved here, to Los Angelus, I had heard all the rumors about the place. About all the crime and dangerous people that hung around the streets. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. I could laugh at myself it's so hilarious. I was that paranoid… that paranoid to go as far as get myself a gun. It's funny really. After a little while of living in the city I found very little threat. Whatever I had heard must have come from TV or movies cause, really, it's not that bad around here. I never had a need for that thing. I carried it around with me for a little while and then after some time I just left it at home then I finally put it under the sink so that it was out of the way. 

            I'm not sure why I grabbed for the thing, but it wasn't the only object that was placed into my hand without my confusion. When I walked into the front room and sat on the couch with the Oscar in my torn up hand and the pistol in the other I found myself not knowing why I had taken them. There was no purpose for either of them. My hand still bled and my real need was for the first aid kit. I watched the blank TV for a few minutes before I finally sat the Oscar on the coffee table and grabbed for the remote. 

            Nothing was on naturally. Just some news… something about some evil dictator had been captured…What was his name? Ugh… is it really all that important? Oh, big deal. Really. Flipped to the next channel and found some talk shows… they were all yelling about whose baby had what father. Clicked off of that real fast, let me tell you.

            A commercial came onto the TV… It was Andrew's movie… didn't know he had done anything new recently. Huh. Looked like a damn good movie too. I wouldn't go see it… but damn good none the less.

            When the commercial was over my eyes started to drift over a tape that had been left on my TV. I squinted to see what was written in little red letters, but my eyes weren't that good, so I reluctantly pushed myself up off the couch and walked over. "2003 Academy Awards." Mina's writing. It was that damn tape that I told you about earlier. Mina must have set it there last time she was over. So I wouldn't forget about it. Didn't help. I forgot about it.

            I don't know why I did it, but I did. I popped that damn thing in and stood in front of the TV. I watched as that 'funny' host made his corny jokes and as each award was given out to each artificial bull shitter. Andrew walked to the stage to accept his award then Mina. She cried like I told you. That's the only thing that made me laugh through the entire show. It wasn't those stupid jokes that the host or presenters said it was Mina and her damn crying. I swear it was freaking hilarious. 

            When I was finished with my fit of laughter I turned to the sliding glass doors. Outside the sun was reflecting magnificently off of the high skyscrapers and the sky shone a bright blue. It was the first thing I noticed before I say my reflection in the glass. What little smile I had left faded and I stood there looking at my reflection for the longest time. 

            The strangest thing happened next. I raised my gun and pointed it at myself… or at my reflection. I gripped that thing so hard that it stung, my knuckles turned death white as I pulled the trigger, fully ready to feel any pain that my reflection might feel. The glass shattered, but I was not phased. Bending down I picked up the Oscar with my blood stained hand and tossed it in my hand to look at its gold face and engraved words.           "Darien M. Shields…Best Original Screen Write." Huh…

            "And the winner is… Darien M. Shields…"

            I whipped that thing over the balcony so hard it killed my shoulder afterwards. Figures. Damn it, it hurt, but I didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. The thing didn't even make it over the railing either. 

            Turning back to the television I watched myself patted on the back by Andrew and Gregory… Then Mina cried and that made me smile. Andrew pushed me up and Mina gave me a kiss. I slowly made my way to the stage then got another kiss from that actress who was standing there and a hand shake from that guy. 

            What I did next in my flat seemed almost automatic. Natural, really. I closed my eyes and I listened to the applauding of the audience in the TV. I smiled as I imagined myself in that same room… with all of those damn bright lights and all of that clapping. I stood on that stage and at that podium. My hand sticky with blood and my clothing sweary as I looked over all of those people. I smiled at them and raised my gun to my head, my eyes scanning over all of them and their grinning faces. I hit the row that Andrew was standing in as he applauded; his face was of complete joy. He didn't see the gun in my hand nor did he have any idea of my intentions. He was just happy for me. His god damn smile gleaming at me and then next to him… Mina, tears running down her cheek with more force than I had remembered. Why were they smiling at me so? Could they not see me on the stage? Here? I hade a gun in my hand! And they were smiling, laughing even! Enjoying themselves! But… you know… it really didn't bother me all that much… Their happy faces… If I did this…. If I pulled that trigger…. They wouldn't be smiling anymore. Their grins would fade… 

            Ha! What did I care whether Andrew was smiling or not? I didn't care… no… And Mina… If I did this thing I she would probably cry… but I wouldn't get to see it. I would never be able to see her cry again. If I did this thing… 

            I opened my eyes then and looked around my condo at the top of Los Angelus. I looked out at the view of the city from my shattered sliding glass window… Where am I? What was I doing here? Why the hell am I here?! 

            I dropped the gun then and turned towards the T.V. as I watched the man before the camera look at everyone in complete disgust. Uncaring and hard.  "Uh… Thanks…"  was all he said. Who the hell was that? 

            I shook my head and closed my eyes again. I would… I would just leave… get out of this place… this apartment, this city… I would get out… I picked up my coat just then and headed out the door, making sure to lock and close the door behind me. I headed to the elevator and pressed the button to the garage, where my car was parked… I had never found a reason to really have it, but now I felt like I could go for a drive. A long drive. 

            I pulled out of the underground garage and headed for the interstate. I leaned my arm against the window and sat back into the seat, the new car smell drowned out by the fresh air blowing through the open window. I felt better. You know… it's funny… I sort of feel an idea coming on…


End file.
